“Oh, I hope so.”
“You ken, I’d willingly forfeit it all, Lockelieth, the mines, everything, if that was the cost he demanded to keep you at my side.” Logan raised himself up onto his elbows and rained gentle kisses across her forehead, nose, cheeks and finally, a tender kiss upon her mouth.
“I ken.” Mayra entwined her arms about his neck and opened her legs to the gentle, insistent nudge of his knee between her thighs.
“I’d do the same for you, without a second thought or a speck of remorse, because I love ye above all else.”
“And I love ye, Mayra.” As Logan slid his length home, he lowered his mouth to an inch above hers.
“Let me show ye how verra much, for the rest of our lives.”
The End
About the Author
Bestselling, award-winning author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them. Mother to three, Collette admits to a quirky sense of humor, enjoys inspiring quotes, and anything cobalt blue. A self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic, she lives in Oregon with her miniature dachshunds.
You’ll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances.
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A Highland Betrothal
Highland Bodyguards, Book 4.5
Emma Prince
Chapter One
July, 1318
Lochmaben, Scottish Lowlands
A soft rap sounded against the wooden pole holding up the far end of the canvas tent.
“Enter.” Graeme MacKay didn’t bother lifting his head from the cot to see who was here to pester him. Only one man came to visit him anymore.
“It’s the middle of the day, man. What are ye still doing in bed?”
Though Colin MacKay, Graeme’s cousin, had merely repeated the same query he used nigh every day, Graeme still muttered a curse.
“Ye ken why.”
“Nay, I ken that the sun is shining. I ken that the air is sweet and warm. I ken that the others are on the practice field, where they have been training since dawn—where ye should have been since dawn. This is the camp for Robert the Bruce’s army, after all, no’ some summer retreat for the infirm.”
Graeme finally propped his forearm under his head and looked at his cousin. Though Colin’s words had been cutting, he wore an easy smile, and his bright blue gaze cajoled Graeme with the MacKay charm.
The MacKay charm that Graeme distinctly lacked.
“What the bloody hell do ye want?” he snapped. “For me to stand up without struggling, walk without a damned cane, and magically be able to practice with the others again?”
Graeme sat up a little more to absently rub the blasted right thigh that had left him in this state. Suddenly Graeme noticed that Colin held something behind his back. He narrowed his eyes at his cousin, but Colin didn’t seem to notice.
“I dinnae expect the impossible,” Colin said levelly. “But I do expect ye to quit yer wallowing and act like the warrior ye are.”
Graeme ground his teeth together. “I’m no’ wallowing.” As soon as the words were out, he cursed himself. He sounded like a petulant bairn even to his own ears.
Colin lifted a golden brow at him, that damned charming smile coming to his mouth once more. “Oh, aye? Then prove me wrong.”
Colin moved one hand out from behind his back to reveal a sword. Before Graeme realized what his cousin was about, the blade came sailing across the tent toward him.
Graeme twisted his body out of the way even as his hand shot out from beneath his head and snagged the flying sword by the hilt.
“What the bloody he—”
Colin whipped a second sword from behind his back. Without warning, he charged at Graeme where he lay on the cot, sword raised for a deadly strike.
With no time to stand or even breathe a curse at his mad cousin, Graeme flung his blade up to block Colin’s attack. The sound of metal on metal rang sharply through the little tent. These were no wooden practice swords or blunted blades meant for friendly training. Nay, they were very real—and very sharp.
Graeme rolled off the cot, landing with a whoosh of breath on the hard-packed dirt floor. He kept rolling until he’d crossed to Colin’s left side. Then using his good leg, he kicked at Colin’s knees, knocking him off-balance.
Colin staggered back, fighting to keep his footing. Graeme used the moment of reprieve to get his good leg under him and hoist himself to standing. He winced as his weight came down on his right leg, but he refused to lower the tip of his sword to the ground and lean on it like a cane.
Knowing he needed to save his energy for a single defeating blow, Graeme waited for Colin to advance again. Colin regained his balance at last, then moved in slowly, that cursed smile quirking his lips.
Colin feigned left, then went straight for Graeme’s bad leg. In the back of his mind, Graeme tucked away a reminder to punch his cousin squarely in the smiling face later. But now, he didn’t have time for that.
Graeme barely managed to block the blow. He took a hobbling step backward, letting his blade slide against Colin’s. With a sudden flick of the wrist, he locked their swords together and pinned Colin’s to the ground. Grinding his teeth against the ache, Graeme bolted forward, driving his shoulder into Colin’s midsection.
Colin tumbled backward, the momentum forcing him to release his grip on his pinned sword. He landed with a grunt on his back. Before he could rise, Graeme positioned the point of his blade at Colin’s throat.
Blue eyes dancing with merriment, Colin held up his hands in surrender. Just as Graeme lowered the sword, Colin’s mouth split into his widest grin yet.
“I hate to break it to ye, cousin,” he said, dusting himself off as he rose to his feet, “but ye just proved me right. The fact that ye were able to best me shows that ye have been wallowing these past few weeks.”
Now was the perfect opportunity to drive his fist into his cousin’s grinning mouth, but suddenly Graeme could no longer muster his anger. He hobbled to the cot and sank down with a muffled groan, propping the sword next to him.
“I didnae mean to be harsh,” Colin said. “I only meant to prove to ye that ye neednae remain in this dark, cramped tent all day. Ye are still a warrior, yer injury be damned.”
Colin drew the lone wooden chair in Graeme’s tent toward the cot and sat down. When Graeme looked up, he found that for the first time since entering, Colin no longer smiled.
“Still no word from Anna?”
Graeme exhaled sharply. He would much rather face a surprise attack from Colin MacKay, one of Robert the Bruce’s most skilled and trusted warriors, than speak of Anna Ross.
“Nay, and I dinnae expect to hear from her again.”
“Then ye ken about the reading of the banns?”
Graeme’s fists clenched at his sides. Aye, he’d heard the announcement of Anna Ross’s engagement—to Laird Donald Munro. “Tomorrow marks the third Sunday.”
The third and final Sunday that Anna’s impending union with the Munro Laird would be announced, and the last chance for someone to come forward and declare any objection to the marriage.
Though it made Graeme’s chest contract to admit it, there was no sound reason for him to proclaim that Anna could not wed Laird Munro. Aye, he’d already asked Anna to marry him. But she had never answered.
Colin cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. “I ken it isnae my
place to ask, but…what happened? Damn near every soul in the Highlands kens that ye were courting Anna Ross.”
Graeme shoved down the anger and hurt that rose thickly in his throat. Anna was marrying another. He needed to harden himself against any lingering emotion he had for her.
“There isnae much to tell, really,” he replied, straining to sound casual. “I wrote to her no’ long after the siege at Berwick. I told her that I’d made it out of the woods with the fever, but that the injury to my leg might never fully heal. Despite the fact that my scar is unsightly and I’ll likely have a limp for the rest of my life, I asked her to marry me.”
Graeme exhaled slowly. Aye, he’d told her about being injured at Berwick, then the terrible, life-sapping fever that had set in, followed by an infection that might have claimed his leg—or his life—if the camp’s healer, Jossalyn Sinclair, hadn’t cut away a crabapple-sized chunk of flesh from his thigh.
But he’d told her much more than that, too. He’d shown her his heart—all of it. When he’d been lying on the verge of death, fighting against the raging fever and the putrescence that had spread from the arrow wound, all he’d thought of was Anna.
Her golden hair brighter than the sun.
Her deep blue eyes like the sky on a perfect Highland summer day.
Her rosy lips, which curved in a smile whenever he was about to kiss her.
He’d told her that she was his life, his heart. He’d said that when he’d thought he was on death’s threshold, he’d prayed only to be able to see her once more. And he’d asked that if he somehow managed to survive, that she make him the luckiest man in all the world and marry him.
Such words did not come easily to a man like Graeme. He was known for his skills with a blade, not bare-spoken declarations of love.
“And…and she refused ye?” Colin asked softly.
Graeme felt his mouth tighten. Of course he’d known that when he confessed that he was a changed man, she might hesitate to agree to wed him. When he’d wooed her, he’d been a proud and strong warrior. Now when he bothered to rise from his cot, he leaned heavily on a cane. Gone was the fierce Highlander he’d been before the siege on Berwick back in April, and in his place was a broken man.
Still, he had at least expected to get an answer to his missive. A plea to delay any questions of marriage, mayhap, or a gentle rejection at worst.
Instead, he’d been met with naught but silence.
“Nay,” he said flatly. “She never replied.”
“And ye are sure yer missive reached the lass?”
“The King himself sent one of his messengers with my note,” Graeme replied tightly. “The Bruce said it was the least he could do for the man who’d nearly given his leg in the service of reclaiming Berwick from the English. The missive was delivered directly into Anna’s hand, according to the messenger.”
Graeme rolled his shoulders, a move that was half meant to relieve the tension there and half meant to appear like a disaffected shrug. “I can only assume that once she heard about my injury, she no longer wanted aught to do with me. A man who can barely walk doesnae make a good warrior—or a good husband.”
Colin made a little noise with his tongue, his brows dropping. “I find it hard to believe that Anna would be so fickle. She always seemed like a steady lass to me. Isnae it more likely that old bear of a father she has wasnae keen on his only daughter dallying with a MacKay? If that were the case, the lass’s engagement to Laird Munro makes even more sense.”
Graeme had considered that when the shock at hearing the news of Anna’s engagement had cleared a bit. Laird William Ross, Anna’s father, had never been overly pleased with Anna and Graeme’s courtship.
Graeme wasn’t the son of a Laird, but that was the least of his problems. The MacKays and Rosses, though near-neighbors, had been on tense terms for years. The MacKays were allied with the Sutherlands, who bordered the Rosses. The Sutherlands and Rosses had frequent disputes over lands and sheep, and the way the Ross Laird saw things, the MacKays, as friends of his enemies the Sutherlands, were his adversaries as well.
“The fact is,” Graeme said, “it doesnae matter. Mayhap Anna didnae want me. Mayhap her father wished to strengthen his alliance with the Munros. Whatever the case, Anna is naught to me now.”
As an uncomfortable silence fell in the tent, Graeme sensed Colin’s sharp gaze on him. He crossed his arms over his chest defensively, but when he looked up, he found Colin in a rare moment of uncertainty.
“What?” Graeme demanded bluntly. Aye, somehow he’d been passed over when the MacKay charm had been doled out. Colin could befriend a man with a single smile or a companionable pound on the shoulder. Graeme, on the other hand, was more likely to offend than charm with his brusqueness and lack of finesse.
The hesitancy fled from Colin’s face as he seemed to decide something. “I didnae just come here for a social call.”
“Aye, ye came to draw a sword on an injured man,” Graeme shot back.
Colin snorted, his playful half-smile returning. “Well, aye. But there was a reason for that.” He grew sober, and Graeme felt himself stiffen with unease.
“Ye see, I have an assignment for ye, and I had to be sure ye could complete it,” Colin said.
Graeme felt his brows drop, but before he could interrupt, Colin hurried on.
“Ye ken that I work for the Bruce in his Bodyguard Corps.”
Word had begun to spread through Robert the Bruce’s army about an elite group of warriors. They were said to work on special orders from the King himself to protect those most vulnerable to the underhanded tactics of the English, who had been targeting individuals important to the Scottish cause for independence since the Battle of Bannockburn four years past.
Graeme nodded slowly. “Aye. It is a great honor for ye—for all MacKays, really—that the King has placed so much trust in ye, Colin.”
“The Bruce is always looking for good men to join the Corps.” Colin fixed Graeme with a pointed look, his brows raised in a silent query.
Graeme’s jaw slackened as realization dawned. “Is this some sort of sick joke, cousin?” He waved a hand at his right thigh. The wound was covered by his breeches, but they both knew very well what had happened to him—and the permanent damage that had likely been done.
Jossalyn had done all she could. Aye, she’d saved Graeme’s leg—and his life, most likely—but the divot in his thigh where the flesh had to be cut away was knotted over in an unsightly scar, and he would likely limp for the rest of his days.
Colin held up a hand. “We need good fighters, aye, but we also need men with wits, courage, and honor as well. Ye more than proved yerself to possess all those things and more at Berwick. And even with yer leg the way it is, ye just verified what I’ve suspected for more than a month now.”
“Oh, aye?” Graeme bit out. “And what is that?”
“That ye are more capable that ye are letting on—mayhap even more than ye believe yerself to be.”
“What, because I knocked ye on yer arse? That doesnae mean—”
“I ken why ye’ve been keeping to yer tent,” Colin cut in. “Yer recovery has been slow and difficult, aye, but ye didnae truly quit trying until the announcement of the banns for Anna and Laird Munro.”
Graeme glared hard at his cousin, but Colin went on, unperturbed. “I believe that if ye got up and about, worked with the sword a bit, ye’d gain more movement and strength in that leg. And even if ye never get an ounce better, ye just demonstrated that ye can still knock me on my arse, as ye said.”
Though he remained silent, Graeme let his hand fall to his leg once more to massage the muscle just above the large scar. He wouldn’t admit it to Colin, but he’d suspected the same thing about his recovery.
He’d been making slow but steady progress in regaining his strength and range of motion before he’d heard the news of Anna’s engagement. In the weeks that had followed, he’d sunken into a sullen ill temper, refusing to leave his tent or
even his cot. The leg had grown worse in that time, making his limp more pronounced and the dull ache more constant.
“I’ve said as much to the Bruce,” Colin added. “And I’ve also told him that I think ye should join the Bodyguard Corps.”
Graeme’s hand stilled in its motion on his thigh. This wasn’t some cruel trick, then. Colin was serious.
“Ye said ye had a mission in mind for me,” Graeme said carefully. “What is it?”
When Colin faltered for the second time in as many moments, Graeme knew he would not like what he was about to hear.
“Ye ken that after the banns are read for the third time tomorrow, Anna will wed Laird Munro,” Colin began tentatively.
“Aye,” Graeme nearly snarled.
“Well, Munro is no’ on his lands. In fact, he is on his way to Lochmaben as we speak.”
“The bastard is coming here?” Without thinking, Graeme jerked to his feet, only to wince at the throbbing in his leg. With a huff, he lowered himself to the edge of the cot once more but did not take his gaze from Colin.
“Just because he is marrying Anna doesnae make him a bastard,” Colin said dryly. “But aye, he’s coming here. The Bruce called him and a few other Lairds down to discuss the state of things in the Highlands. What with establishing Berwick as a Scottish stronghold once more and continuing our advance along the Borderlands, the King hasnae had time to speak to the Lairds or visit the Highlands in quite some time. As ye can imagine, even those clans united behind the Bruce still lose sight of our larger goals and revert back to in-fighting now and again.”
Graeme nodded curtly. Despite being on the same side of the war against the English, many Highland clans still wasted their energies on petty clan feuds. The MacKays and the Rosses were a perfect example of that.
“What does Munro’s arrival in Lochmaben have to do with me?” he asked. Suddenly a horrifying thought occurred to him. “Dinnae tell me ye want me to guard the man set to marry Anna.”
“Nay,” Colin said quickly, but when he hesitated, Graeme sensed that his mission would actually be far worse than that.
The Forbidden Highlands Page 42